


Bed Side Manners

by thelastbarricade



Series: Hemlock Grove Prompted fics [2]
Category: Hemlock Grove, Hemlock Grove (Netflix)
Genre: M/M, Post-Finale, Spoilers, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:28:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelastbarricade/pseuds/thelastbarricade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Finale fic *spoilers*</p><p>In the aftermath of Christina and Shelley and Olivia, Roman awakes to find himself in his own bed, in his pajamas, with the scent of Peter just still lingering on his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bed Side Manners

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES FOR CLARIFICATION.  
> Peter hasn't left just yet, and he still has his hair.  
> Because let's face it, he has beautiful hair.
> 
> Prompt asked by the oh so lovely bubblewrapstargirl @tumblr!
> 
> "...Anything with Peter kissing Roman whilst he's dressed in those stripey PJs from when he was in a coma. If you can make it bittersweet post-finale fic, I'd love you forever :)"
> 
> I hope this is okay! xx

  Roman woke up in his manor,  
  in _his_ bed,  
  in _his_ pajamas.

  The sheets were tousled, but clean.  
  They'd been changed somewhere in the midst of the night, different even were his clothes. He wore his nightwear. They felt odd on his bruised limbs. He sat up slowly, wincing in slight as his bones creaked from sweet abuse. The fabric on his skin much like heaven, a second heaven of course; soft, eggshell and pale robin's egg blue striped linen pajama's he rarely wore unless Olivia's guests were about the house in the night of evening. He always had to look so presentable, the sole son of J.R. Godfrey, the _Upir_ heir.  
  
  He remembered what he'd been wearing yesterday evening, that much was clear.  
  He remembered the tearing of his favorite jacket, thrown off in a fit of hormonal changes and lust and bodily heat.  
  He remembers uttering out a, " _Fucking damnit, Wolf boy_ -" and a mouth capturing his curved in a smirk and the faintest hint of canines tugging at his full, reddened lips. He rememers skin on skin, pale and tawny limbs entwined and the way Peter had pulled him through the front doors of the manor while whispering and growling out his wants, his needs; cursing out expletives and promising to ravage and rectify all that Roman was...if for just a night.  
  And Roman? Roman couldn't deny him that, not his Peter, his friend, the friend he never knew he needed or wanted but knew that much that he was _important_.  
  The Peter he knew he had been so scared to lose just hours ago.  
  
  What Roman Godfrey doesn't want to remember is what floods back to him in the dim morning light,  
  the memories. The memories that reminded him there was a life outside of his bedroom, outside of the warmth that had been Peter's skin and his breath and his being.  
    
  Memories he couldn't deny:  
    
  His sister was dead, surely. Shot twice by the hand of a deranged Sheriff;  
  His mother? Deceased.  
  His dear cousin, Letha? Deceased.   
  And that girl, the white wolf who had killed countless people by her own hand for the gift of lycanthropy, was dead as well.  
   
  The last thing Roman should have been doing was laying in bed like nothing had ever happened. Like they all hadn't just died and those who survived had sustained loss.  
  Roman's loss was fresh but hazy.  
  His baby sister was dead.  
  He'd failed Shelley.  
  He'd failed Letha.  
  He'd failed them all.  
  
  The heir to the Godfrey enterprises pushed himself up to his elbows, sighing in soft as he pushed his dark hair back, lips cooling in the cold air as his body heat fell once more with the lack of a body next to him to warm him.  
  
  He trailed a finger along his collar in absent thought, wincing at the deep marks and yellowing bruises lying there from those flashes of teeth he had known so well, wanted to embed on his skin for his eternity. His smile was small as his fignertips traced, like a puzzle he felt across the lines and bruised edges of skin, picturing himself as a puzzle that had been broken and put back together.  
  
  Roman closed his eyes and exhaled in slow, his own breath now foreign if not synced with his other. His Peter.  
  
  "I could make you breakfast." Peter's voice was calm and clear, heavy though it seemed he had been awake for far longer than Roman. Peter tucked in the last bit of his towel as he appeared from the adjoining bathroom, dark golden brown locks still dripping as they were shoved back messily into a loose ponytail. The other boys chest was slick sheen with dripping water, still tawny in hue even in the unforgiving light of the Godfrey Manor and he smelled of ivory and open air, like wood and stale cologne. Damn Peter. He still insisted on wearing his damn cologne.  
  Not that Roman could mind.  
  Not one bit.  
    
  Roman blinked up to the boy before him, not moving. He watched Peter a moment more, shaking his head. "I'm not hungry." He yawned in short. "Sore as hell, though. Maybe some tea?"  
    
  Peter scoffed, turning away to pull on his boxers, all the while Roman smiling at the sight of a finely toned...well, ass.  
  
  "Breakfast and a dash I'm assuming." Roman pulls himself out of the bed, letting his feet fall over the edge where Peter stands. "And some tea." His voice is solemn so much so he barely recognizes it. "Thank you for changing the sheets, I should say. Mother'd have a fit-"  
  
  Peter turns around then, quick and gentle, body still bare and heat still emmanating from skin freshly doused in that ivory cented water; musked in that damned cologne that smelled of wild. He presses soft, chapped though they always were, lips to Romans, cupping the back of the  _Upir's_ neck, thumb tracing Roman's jaw as the paler of the two let his eyes flutter shut in suprise.   
  
  Roman smiles, breathless before regaining the composure he knows he should have.  
  
  "You know I'd stay, you know-" Peter shakes his head as his work calloused thumb brushes against a small bruise on Roman's jaw.  
  
  "Would you?" Roman asks, short and curt and behind his dark hues there  _could_ be hurt but god damnit he won't let it show.  
  
  But it already has, because this is Peter. His friend. _His_ Peter.  
  
  Peter clenches his jaw, yet he's not angry, he looks much like a wounded pup; childish.   
    
  "This town, Roman, I-I can't stay...not after-"  
  
  "So you would leave me here, leave me to suffer in the pain you never could?" Roman doesn't bite his tongue, he never has.  
  
  "You don't have to stay-"  
  
  "But where would I go?" His voice breaks because he knows Peter is leaving, has to leave, will leave without  _him_.  
  
  "I'm trapped here, by my name, by my body." Roman pauses. "I can't go and we both know that."  
  
  Peter slides his palm down Roman's side, his ribs, his slender frame that is still beneath the soft linen fabric he wears.  
  
  "I'm not gone yet."  
  
   _You will be_ , Roman whispers in his mind. He shakes his head, the thought, away. He smiles, in fact, though it is so misplaced. He buries his face in Peter's shoulder, and Peter lowers himself to nuzzle the side of Roman's head, curling up against Roman with the scent of oak and clean linen on his chest.  
  
  "You must make your heart of steel." Roman whispers to himself, eyes shut tight as he breathes in soft against the pulse he's come to know, beneath the touch skin he's grown to love.  
  
  "What?" Peter murmurs against him, wrapping a toned arm around the boys waist, pulling him close.  
  
  "Nothing." He shakes his head, blinking dark lashes into the shadow of Peter shoulder. "Nothing."


End file.
